One Important Consequence
by Laclavande
Summary: Porthos is prepared to risk everything to protect his daughter- but is there even any threat? Elodie believes Asher saw the error of his ways, but Porthos is paranoid after finding out the kidnapper never gave the baby up willingly. He believes Asher will one day try to take her again. Or worse. (Sequel to One Dead Sunflower & One Year On)
1. Chapter 1

"You lied to Elodie."

" **Yes** , I lied to Elodie! But what does it matter?"

Porthos paced the hallway outside the apartment. Those words. That conversation repeated in his head over and over. D'Artagnan had lied. He had lied to protect Elodie, and Porthos should have felt grateful… Instead, he was angry and afraid.

Finally, the door was opened, but not by Porthos. Elodie stood at the door, a look of amused curiosity on her face, one side of her mouth tugging towards her cheek. She had heard him pacing. The building may have been new, but the wood itself was old and creaky. Constance was on the other side of the room, lighting candles as Marie clutched at her skirts, captivated by the magic of the mundane activity.

"What are you doing out here?" Elodie asked her husband.

"I have to tell you something," he said seriously, and Elodie dropped her amusement. Taking the hint, she stepped outside.

"We'll just be a moment," she told Constance before closing the door.

They went to the small balcony that overlooked the Musketeer cemetery, it was barely big enough for them both to fit. Elodie wasn't panicking yet, she wasn't letting herself get carried away with her thoughts. This could be about anything. She leaned on the small width of wall with her arms crossed. Porthos, on the other hand, was uneasy. He stood so rigid in front of her, forcing himself to look her in the eye as he calculated what he was going to say.

"Well," she said, "what is it?"

Porthos took a deep breath and shifted his feet as he said,

"I'm going to look for Gauthier."

Elodie was taken aback; she almost laughed. This wasn't what she was expecting at all. She stood up straight, her arms dropping to her sides.

"What? Why?"

Porthos grimaced and looked away to the graves below that were darkening with the sky as the sun set.

"There's just something I need to take care of."

"What does that mean?" Elodie spat.

Porthos was silent. He still wasn't used to having a wife. Was he supposed to treat her like one of his Musketeer brothers and tell her everything, involve her as much as possible? Or was he supposed to only ever protect, keep her out of the way?

"Is it jealousy?" Elodie continued, "Is it because you think you can't be Marie's father as long as he's out there?"

Porthos turned back,

"That's ridiculous," he snapped.

"Then what is it?" Elodie asked, "Why are you even thinking about him?"

Porthos ignored her questions. He decided it didn't matter why the issue was playing on his mind, or who had been the one to put it there.

"I need to take care of this now," he said, his tone growing in urgency, "while Marie is still young– or else she'll grow up with a shadow looming over her shoulder. I want her to grow up happy and safe and as far away from that criminal as possible." He finished, pointing into the distance over the rooftops, as if the man he was speaking of was over there somewhere, just out of view. Porthos leaned with both hands on the railing, arms bent. He wasn't looking his wife in the eye anymore.

Elodie just took a breath, searching his posture for any understanding she could glean.

"Where is this all coming from?" she asked, "He's gone. He's not coming back!"

Porthos didn't say anything or move except to shake his head.

"… You're not telling me something… Porthos," Elodie pleaded.

A moment passed in silence. They could hear insects chirping and distant celebratory shouts from the men drinking in the yard. Porthos still didn't move, didn't look up as he made his admission;

"Gauthier was never going to give up Marie. He was going to go all the way to Burgundy with her– or wherever he wanted."

Elodie narrowed her eyes at him. She could feel her chest expanding and contracting tighter with every shallow breath. What was he talking about?

"He didn't leave Marie at that inn for D'Artagnan to find," Porthos continued, straightening up, "He was forced into handing her over. That's why I think he'll be back, that's why I think he's still a threat." And he turned back to the view of the cemetery. Tears prickled in Elodie's eyes. The terror that gripped her that day was creeping over her again. She suddenly had a desperate, irrational need to go back inside and hold her daughter. But she knew that could wait. She quickly wiped her eyes and softly said,

"… He just wants his family back. He'd never hurt us. You don't know Asher, he's not worth the trouble."

"It's true I don't know him," Porthos happily conceded. His fingers wrapped around the cold, bumpy railing and his voice turned dark,

"But I know men."

If all his years as a soldier had taught him anything, it was the ugly truth of mankind. Porthos knew the things that men did. He knew how their hearts change. How any affliction can twist a man into conducting a worse infliction. He had always thought the worst of Asher, even imagining horns growing from his head. He had to. There was no room for anything else. Not with his family.

"No matter what you and I and everyone else think, to him Marie is his child. He won't let her go that easily. Sure-" Porthos shrugged, "-he'd never hurt Marie… But he'd still take her away from you if he was given the chance again."

Elodie just stared at him. This is what she had feared. Her former husband's resurgent threat and Porthos getting carried away with it.

"And that's my fault," he continued, his tone now delicate, "I was what was keeping him from you."

Elodie stifled a gasp.

"That doesn't mean that what happened is your fault, Porthos," she told him earnestly, placing her hands on his. He looked at their hands on the railing, then up to her face. She saw the anxiety and fear in his expression. He really thought it was his fault.

"Just stay," she pleaded, "Just think about this. You could be called back to the war any day, what would happen if you weren't here to receive that notice?"

"I'll talk to Aramis. He'll understand. He can delay it."

"What are you talking about? France needs you."

His hands slipped from hers and he leaned back, his head thunking on the wall. He stared up at the dark beams of the ceiling as he quietly seemed to ask them,

"Don't you need me?"

"Yes," Elodie whispered without hesitation, "But not for this, Porthos. Not for this. I need you here. I need you to be my husband- not a vigilante!"

Porthos brought his gaze back down and sighed before cocking his head to the side and half-sincerely saying,

"You know I'm a Musketeer, right?"

Elodie let out a light laugh at that. How could she have forgotten? This is exactly what he does.

"I don't ever want to go against you, El," he told her gently, his affectionate name for her hanging in Elodie's thoughts, "But I have to do this. I know you can understand. I think maybe you already do."

He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her ever so slightly closer in the confined space. Elodie rolled her lips and sighed.

"Come inside," she urged him, trying to harness her womanly charm, "Come eat. You can read to Marie if she sits still long enough."

Porthos sighed too. After a moment's consideration, looking into her blue eyes dulled by the creeping darkness, he turned with a smiling Elodie under his arm back to the apartment. He had decided he was going to leave as soon as possible.

* * *

Later, Elodie watched on from the other room as Porthos got down on the rug, groaning as he did so. Marie crouched on her little chubby haunches in front of him, their faces level. She wasn't paying him much attention, however. She was busy inspecting the objects laid at her feet, with one hand flat on her knee, the other in a fist.

"What's this you've got?" Porthos asked her sweetly, taking the silver thing from her tiny grasp. Marie let him take the spoon and looked up at him as if she was just now noticing that he was there. She stared at his big face, lips pursed. Porthos couldn't help but smile, neither could Elodie, who had stopped amending the garrison to-do list a while ago. Marie pressed a hand on his nose and giggled when it flattened.

"No…" Porthos laughed, barely keeping it together. He batted her soft little hand away and cleared his throat.

"What is this?" He asked her again, holding up the object.

"Spoooo!" Marie answered happily.

"That's right!"

Porthos sat up and took the little girl in his arms and rolled over onto his back with her.

"You're so clever. Oh, you're so clever," he told her as she giggled and shrieked above him.

Elodie shook her head at the absurdity of the scene. Then she thought back to hearing her daughter speak her first words not that long ago. She had celebrated similarly. Porthos had missed so much. For him, anything beyond 'mama' and 'papa', or 'no' was an amazing feat. Of course Elodie thought so too, but Marie was taking on new words every day. Elodie crept up behind them as Porthos hugged his daughter on the floor.

"See, how can you leave this?" She whispered through a smile. Porthos only gazed at Marie in his arms and said in a cheery tone,

"Easily. Knowing it's to protect this."

Elodie sighed. How much longer was this argument going to last? She settled down on the floor across from her husband. Marie twisted to sit in her father's lap and went back to picking up the things on the floor, including a handkerchief and a torn playing card.

"He disappeared over a year ago. How do you expect to find him?"

She thought to but didn't ask what Porthos intended to do if he succeeded in his hunt. Would he kill Asher? Elodie wondered if she was supposed to be horrified at the thought. She wasn't.

"Well… I thought I'd-"

Porthos hadn't thought past finding out which direction Asher went that day.

"You don't even know what he looks like…" Elodie continued to berate, then said, "I didn't realise I'd married an idiot."

"Hey now."

"I'm coming with you."

"Out of the question," Porthos said sternly, not missing a beat. Elodie, also without missing a beat said,

"You're an idiot, Porthos. A brave idiot, but still an idiot. You can't find him without me."

Porthos smiled to himself,

"I thought you hated the idea."

"I do," she said, "But I understand your reasoning, and I know you'll try with or without me, so I might as well give you a bit of a chance."

"What about her?" Porthos asked, worried eyes watching the fussing child trying to stand on his legs. She wobbled about like a drunk on a ship. Elodie watched her too. Her precious daughter, the most important thing in her life she could never bear to leave.

"Four days," she announced bravely, not taking her eyes off of Marie.

"What?"

"If we come up with nothing after four days, we come straight back. That is the longest I will let us be apart."

Porthos sniffed and said, noncommittally,

"Alright."

He trusted Elodie as a mother, wholeheartedly. However, the idea of her being his partner on this mission and leaving behind a child so young— it was an idea he was unsure about, to say the least. Elodie sensed this.

"I've made up my mind," she said, standing up, "I come with you on your ridiculous mission, or you go alone against my wishes and fail. And I can't imagine how things would be between us then. I doubt I could ever forgive you."

Elodie stood over her husband. The words she spoke were honest. Leaving Paris on an unapproved and unsanctified mission to punish her ex-husband was a sin that was once unthinkable; now it was reality. She expected that their reasons for finding Asher were very different. Though she could not say for certain what Porthos intended, she knew that he aimed to punish the man in some way or other— stamp out the threat that he posed; whereas Elodie sought to only speak to her ex-husband. She wanted to know why he had stolen her daughter from her, and if he was sorry for it. She was even open to forgiveness if her heart allowed for it after hearing what he has to say. Elodie did not convey this to Porthos. In his state, he was unwilling to understand, and she did not want to compromise her mission for the sake of his. Elodie's fierceness softened as she started to plan. She began pacing,

"And we should tell d'Artagnan-"

"Why?"

Elodie stopped pacing. What a strange question.

"He's the captain."

Porthos stood up, Marie ascending with him on his hip.

"He's not my captain," he said, unable to mask the disdain lacing his words, "I could give him orders if I wanted to."

In the time she'd known them both, Elodie had only known Porthos and d'Artagnan to have the utmost respect for each other. Suddenly Porthos no longer held that respect. And not once had he used his rank in such a manner, it was something he barely acknowledged. Exhausted from the day and its intense conversations, Elodie found herself confused by her husband. She thought she understood him. Perhaps not as well as she had thought.

"Well that's fine for you," she scoffed, "but d'Artagnan is my captain. We live here thanks to his good will— you'd best remember that."

And she took Marie from his arms, muttering something about it being her bedtime, leaving Porthos in the middle of the room. He stood there for some time, cursing to himself and running his hand over his beard. The couple did not speak more on the matter for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Elodie woke the next morning in an anxious state. Worrying had kept her awake most of the night. To her relief, Porthos was still there beside her when she opened her eyes, his hair mussed against the pillow. However, his presence was of little comfort, as it meant that she had to go through with her promise from last night. She had hoped it had only been a dream. Elodie settled back down under the covers, shifting closer to Porthos, her warm hand wrapping around his bare middle. With any luck, they'd have a few more moments before Marie woke up and demanded that the day begin.

Porthos had spent most of the night awake too, similar worries mounting, and a vague plan formulating. He mostly thought about facing d'Artagnan. He was still angry with him, but his sensible understanding conflicted with his emotion. D'Artagnan was not at fault for what happened, he never had been. He had been the hero that day. So why was Porthos still angry?

Porthos sighed and pulled a hand from under the blanket, placing it on the arm that lay on his belly.

"Morning," mumbled the woman next to him. He returned a groan in greeting. Then they stayed there like that for some time, almost falling back asleep. It was then that Marie decided to cough loudly and complain in her language of annoyed babbles.

"So today or tomorrow— when do you want to set out?" Elodie asked later that morning. Porthos flicked his attention to her, but he was preoccupied with tying Marie's cap, so he turned back to the child on the settee.

"Probably first thing tomorrow," he said, and Elodie nodded to herself.

"You spoke with d'Artagnan yesterday," she said, asking so much in a factual statement. Porthos' large fingers still struggled with the tiny string under a very mobile head. He grit his teeth.

"What did you speak of?" She pressed when he did not respond.

"Elodie, I don't want to involve you in matters between men. And I don't want to involve him in ours."

"Why?"

Porthos stayed silent. Marie kept looking around the room, undoing her father's progress.

"I'll just keep asking until you tell me," Elodie said, moving towards the back of the settee, "Or perhaps I'll just ask d'Artagnan."

Porthos gave up.

"Can you— can you help me with this?" he asked her, gesturing at the baby whose face was starting to crumple with tears. Elodie wordlessly got down and tied the string perfectly in seconds. Now both of them sitting on the floor once again, Elodie looked to her husband seriously.

"You have to tell me all that's happening, Porthos. We're in this together," she said. Porthos rolled his lips and nodded. He knew she was right. So he told her about his last meeting with the Musketeer captain, that it was him that had revealed the truth. Then,

"I suppose I'm hesitant to involve him… Because I'm angry with him," he said with a strange malice that did not at all suit him.

"You still trust him, don't you?"

"Always."

"Then why childishly avoid him like this?"

Porthos didn't answer her question and got up. He padded over to the small mirror that hung on the wall. It was cloudy, he could barely see himself in it. Elodie was left to ponder. It didn't take her long to come to a sensible conclusion.

"You fool," she said from her spot on the floor. Porthos frowned at himself in the mirror before turning around. Did his wife just call him a fool?

"You're not mad at d'Artagnan," she said with a slight struggle as she picked up Marie, "You're mad at him!"

Porthos just stared at her. Then at his boots. To herself, but loud enough that Porthos could hear, Elodie walked past her husband through to the next room, muttering,

"Men… how out of touch with their feelings can they get?"

* * *

The door to the captain's office was open. With a nudge from Elodie, Porthos cautiously entered. D'Artagnan was at his desk, making adjustments to maps. With information from Aramis, he was going about making note of villages that no longer existed. Many of the new men in the regiment had never been outside Paris. The less confusion for them when they ventured the countryside the better. When he saw the family come in, he set his pen down and got up.

"Porthos," he breathed, relieved to see him after how things were left the night before. Porthos smiled tightly.

"Porthos, I'm sorry," d'Artagnan continued, "Elodie-" he looked to her, "-you too. I'm… I'm sorry for not being fully honest."

"It's alright, d'Artagnan," Elodie said sincerely, sweetly, in the way that women do, a true calm in the way she spoke, "We don't blame you. Do we?"

And she looked to Porthos beside her, prompting him. She felt like the Queen giving hints to her son on how to behave.

"No. We don't blame you," he said. D'Artagnan smiled.

"But we are going to look for Gauthier— hunt him down, find him."

D'Artagnan stopped smiling.

"What?"

"You can't talk him out of it," Elodie said, giving the captain a look that told him she had already tried.

"But Porthos…" D'Artagnan didn't finish his sentence. He leaned on his desk and groaned, hanging his head. He had spent all night thinking about the situation, from all perspectives. It was from Porthos' that he had spent the most time. He knew why Porthos wanted to do this. It was a simple matter of protecting his family. But Porthos hadn't been there with d'Artagnan as he watched Gauthier pleading for his life, bound and bleeding on his knees in horse muck. Where Porthos saw a major threat, d'Artagnan saw none.

When d'Artagnan lifted his head, Porthos approached the desk.

"You saved my daughter, it's true," he said softly, "And I thank you for that. You spared my wife pain, this is also true…" He turned to look at his wife and daughter. Marie looked as though she wanted to go to her uncle. Elodie clung onto her, her eyes fixed on Porthos.

"Except in doing so," he continued, staring at d'Artagnan, "you leave us with one important consequence: Gauthier lives."

D'Artagnan moved his tongue across his bottom lip. Sensing another terse discussion approaching, he bade Elodie,

"I think Constance is downstairs."

Not one to be bossed around by men, Elodie didn't move. She wanted to be involved in this 'matter between men'. Best friend or not, Constance could wait. Then Porthos looked at her silently, his expression plain except for low eyebrows and dark eyes. He didn't want her here. Though Elodie could tell it wasn't because she was a woman, or because it didn't concern her, because of course it did— this really was a matter between the two of them, an end to last night's difficult conversation. A conversation she hadn't been there for to begin with.

"Right," she said, surprised at her throat closing up. Then she left with Marie, who waved to the others. Elodie paused outside the room before closing the door and heading downstairs.

When the door clicked shut, d'Artagnan made his way around the desk.

"You're a smart man, Porthos," he said, a tone of warning in his voice, "This is stupid!"

"You sound like my wife," Porthos mused. Neither of them smiled. Porthos sighed and paced over to the window. But then he changed his mind, turning to face d'Artagnan. This was no time to be pensive.

"Are you destined to be the naïve boy from Gascony forever? I thought you'd changed—seen the world for how it is," he growled.

"Seems you're the one who's changed, Porthos…" d'Artagnan replied coolly. He saw Porthos clench his jaw, and took a deep breath, "You can't think the worst of everyone," he said, "There's still a light, you know… Do you not see the light anymore?"

Porthos gave no reply.

"What happened to you…?" The captain asked delicately.

"Rocroi…" Porthos began, but he didn't finish. He shook his head and looked away. He was a soldier, a general. He would not waver in his strength. It was his strength that had won him that battle.

"Porthos…" sighed d'Artagnan. He had always admired Porthos' strength, not just in a fight, but after it too. At times, he even envied him. But the older d'Artagnan got, the more he saw his friends not as mythic heroes as he once did, but as men just like him. The trauma of war had not yet left him. Somehow he hadn't realised until this moment that maybe Porthos was holding on to trauma too.

"Porthos, I'm sorry about what happened with Gauthier. It's just that— I don't think he's capable of doing what you're expecting."

"Exactly."

D'Artagnan laughed despite himself and said,

"That's not what I meant."

There was a blue and gold flag on the far wall. Porthos walked over to it as d'Artagnan sat on the edge of the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. It was the new flag for the People's Musketeers, its design commissioned by the Queen. The familiar fleur-de-lis framed the corners, with a pair of clashed swords over a loaf of bread surrounded by white flowers in the centre. Porthos felt the fabric between his fingers briefly.

"I thought my duty would always remain in the service of France," he said, facing the flag, "And I will always be loyal-" he turned, "-but I have a more important duty now. To my family. My girls come first now. I know you can understand. God! What you wouldn't do for Constance…" D'Artagnan smiled, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

"Maybe you're right!" Porthos continued, "Maybe Elodie's right! Maybe I am wasting my time. But as a father— as a Musketeer, I have to know the truth for myself."

The room became silent, the pair staring at each other. D'Artagnan contemplating, and Porthos watching him expectantly. Then d'Artagnan folded.

"He went east," he said with a sigh, "The road where the inn is? It's the only road for a few miles, and he went east along it."

He got up and walked around the desk. Porthos watched from the other side as he slid maps onto the floor until he found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said, pointing at a thin line, "This is the road."

His finger traced along it until it reached the first landmark, what looked like a town.

"He may have stopped there."

Porthos extended his hand for d'Artagnan to shake, a glimmer of hope and gratitude in his eye. D'Artagnan took his hand, but at the same time, they pulled each other into an embrace.

"Thank you," Porthos said in his ear.

When they parted, d'Artagnan said,

"You're taking Elodie with you?"

"Yes."

"Marie will be well taken care of in your absence."

"I know."

D'Artagnan paused. Marie would be well taken care of, that was a promise, but d'Artagnan had hoped Porthos would spend more time with her now that he was back, for however long that was. As much as he and everyone else loved Marie, no one at the garrison was her father. And with Elodie leaving too, separated from her daughter, d'Artagnan worried all the more.

"We'll be back in a few days," Porthos told him. D'Artagnan hoped that was true.

* * *

Asher slept in a tavern the first night. He washed the blood from his face and hands in a horse trough when he got to the first sign of civilisation. Inside, he played one round of cards with some strangers just so he could win enough money to buy a drink and justify being there. He stole food from plates when people weren't looking. He could've taken scraps, but it was just as easy for him to take a whole, hot chicken leg as it was to take a bone no one wanted. This behaviour was not new for Asher. He had learned to fend for himself this way a long time ago.

On this first night, he had given up. He was beaten. Thought he'd sooner die than see his daughter again. So he lived in taverns, barns, and abandoned places all the way from Corbeil to as far away as Lyon, until his travels brought him to the town of Troyes, a mere hundred miles from Paris. A few days before walking into the first tavern he found there, Asher had passed a small band of men in French military uniform on the road. They were singing and stepping out of time with each other. They were going home, it seemed. They paid him no attention at all, but they did give Asher an idea. He was sick of being a wanderer. D'Artagnan, Elodie, that faux husband of hers— they had made him into what he had become. So when he walked into the tavern, he stepped up onto a stool in the middle of the room and announced,

"A heathen has my only son hostage. He's only a year old. If you think I'm a fraud, I'm not asking for donations, only willing and able men to help me get her—him back."

Men valued their sons. Asher figured they'd be more sympathetic if his stolen child were a boy. It was late in the day, the tavern was somewhat full, but it was quiet. Everyone was staring at him.

"You want to organise a posse?" One man chuckled before taking a swig of his pint.

"The law has failed me," Asher continued, "I need men-"

"You know there's a war going on? The only men left here are the ones not able to fight."

"It-it's not just my son. My wife too! It's my belief he has her under a spell. He forced her into an unholy marriage!"

"If you had the coin, maybe we could help you, but…" the stranger looked him up and down, so did the others at his table, "It doesn't look like it."

"You would abandon a fellow man in need?" Asher asked dramatically.

"Everything has its price, my friend," and the stranger downed the last of his ale. Asher looked around the room. All the faces stared back at him, not one of them held any empathy.

"This is a sad day for France!" He declared before stepping off his stool. He left the building being followed by uproarious laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Elodie held back her tears as she stroked her daughter's blonde hair. It was so light, the sun shone on her head and the brightness of it reflected into her eyes. It was almost painful.

"You be a good girl for your aunt Constance, alright?"

She was doing this for her daughter. It may not be the right thing to do, but it was what she needed to do, her and Porthos. Elodie kissed the little girl one last time and handed her over to Constance who took the child into her arms with a pained expression on her face. Marie sensed the unease of the situation. She saw the horses, the bags, and her mother in riding clothes. She knew that her mother was abandoning her, but she had no way of knowing that it was only for a few days. Marie started crying hysterically, her face turning beet-red in a matter of seconds, wriggling in Constance's arms to get to Elodie. But the women remained steadfast. Elodie allowed only one tear to fall as she took the reins of her horse in a tight fist.

"She'll be fine. Don't worry about us," Constance assured Elodie over Marie's crying. It was then that Porthos came down the stairs with d'Artagnan. Porthos was wearing his old Musketeer uniform without the obvious pauldron. Seeing him in it made Elodie smile despite how upset she was in that moment. The men nodded to each other after a few quiet words and separated. D'Artagnan put his arm around Constance and stroked Marie's hair just as Elodie had done moments ago. The girl still refused to settle, and d'Artagnan suggested Constance take her inside where she might calm down. Constance did just that, but not before Porthos skipped over to say goodbye. Marie stopped crying momentarily, and Porthos kissed her head. He daren't hold her, it would make things even more difficult.

"I love you," he told her, cupping her ruddy face.

"Pa—pa," was her heartbreaking reply, her tiny voice sounding even smaller. Then Porthos sucked in a breath and turned on his heel. Constance shushed the child as she walked away. Elodie watched them, her one gloved hand covering her mouth. She was physically forcing herself not to cry. As Porthos put the last of their supplies in his saddlebag, d'Artagnan hugged Elodie. She dropped the reins, taken by surprise.

"Good luck," he told her as they parted. Elodie wiped away some tears and gave a hard sniff.

"You're upset now. She is too," the captain said gently, "but the reunion will be sweeter when you return. Focus on your mission now— if that's what you want to call it."

"You're sure you can do this?" Elodie asked him. The crying they could hear had died down.

"Of course. Anyway, it's good practice."

"Practice…" Elodie raised her eyebrows, "You don't mean-?"

"Ah," d'Artagnan pressed his lips together awkwardly.

"We're considering it. We didn't think we ever would, but… Things change, don't they?"

Elodie smiled warmly. Things had certainly changed.

Porthos came over and put an arm around his wife and kissed the top of her head.

"You alright?" he asked her.

"I will be. Once we get going."

He kissed her head once more before positioning himself next to her horse. Elodie rolled her eyes but made no argument as she let him help her onto the animal. It felt surprisingly good to be in a saddle wearing trousers. D'Artagnan stood back as he watched Porthos settle into his own saddle.

"Give Marie kisses from both of us tonight, won't you?" Elodie asked him, taking his attention from Porthos. 'Motherhood has made me so soft' she thought to herself.

"We will, Elodie," he assured her, bowing his head. Then with a final knowing nod from Porthos, they were off. D'Artagnan waved at their backs as they rode through the gate. The days he had spent in prison were going to be nothing compared to how long the next few days were going to feel.

* * *

The city was soon behind them, only the road and calm fields ahead. Elodie took in a deep breath of fresh air. It had been so long since she'd been outside the city. Porthos rode slightly in front, his eyes on the path ahead. Still on the main road and with the city still in sight, it was somewhat busy. A coach bounced by on its way to Paris, almost hitting Porthos. His well-trained mount was unfazed. Porthos was anxious to pick up the pace, but the traffic made that difficult. He kept looking over his shoulder back the way they had come. Elodie thought he was looking at her, and when she caught his eye he smiled back at her, but really he was looking back towards Paris. It was still visible, a grand sight it was, but many roads converged on the one they were on. The further they were from the city, the faster they could ride. But Porthos wasn't patient enough for that. A couple walked by with a donkey, and then Porthos steered off the road and down the small bank. He waited for Elodie to follow, who was just as impatient.

"Let's go," he said, and then they were off.

They made their way back onto the road eventually, but not before flying past the traffic on the road. They also passed a number of crossroads, none of which they paused at. D'Artagnan had given Porthos directions to their first destination, and Porthos wanted to hurry to it before the day got on. They were riding side by side when they reached the inn. A nice enough little place, it was surrounded by empty land. It was quiet. Wordlessly, Porthos got off his horse. Elodie stared at the building. This was it. The place where Asher was last seen. She could only imagine what had happened here.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked her, looking up at her expectantly. Elodie shook herself out of her thoughts and climbed down from her horse too.

Once they were inside, a redheaded woman of middle age emerged from behind a wall. Elodie yanked off her gloves as she looked around the room. It was dim despite the light of midday not long past, and the ceiling was low, Porthos was only just able to stand without bending. Looking around the corner, Elodie could see the dining room. One man sat alone there, holding a whole potato, biting into it like a pear, steam rising from it. The man's attention was on her for only a moment before he went back to what looked like sketching.

"Afternoon," the innkeeper woman greeted, slapping a grey rag over her shoulder.

"What you want?"

Porthos went to say something, but Elodie took over,

"Wine and a meal, if you please."

The questions could wait. She silently conveyed this to her husband with a look and a smile.

"Right. Sit yourselves down and I'll bring you somethin'."

Leading Porthos to a table, Elodie joked as quietly as she could,

"Let's just hope whatever she brings that it's more than a boiled potato."

"This isn't a rest stop, Elodie," Porthos told her as they sat down.

"I know that," she said, resting her elbows on the table, "But that doesn't mean we can't take a break, have something to eat."

Porthos scratched his neck behind the tall collar of his doublet and sighed. They waited in silence for a few moments before Porthos pushed out his chair and got up. Elodie picked up her elbows in surprise.

"Gonna look around."

And then he crept up the stairs before Elodie could protest. She sighed to herself, now alone in the room with potato-man. She felt suddenly quite uncomfortable. At first, she didn't know why, but she took a sharp breath when she realised that it was because she was aware of what had happened in this place. In the silence, she imagined loud, frantic scenes. Her eyes roamed the whole space, seeing Asher jump down the stairs with a howling ten-month-old, being chased by Lorenzo and d'Artagnan. She imagined them shooting at him, even though she knew they would never have done that. She heard false, imagined shouts. D'Artagnan's voice took a furious tone she had never heard in real life.

"Where's your man?"

The innkeeper dropped two plates on the table with a clang, shocking Elodie back into the present.

"Oh. Um," she started, "He's watering our horses."

The innkeeper uncorked the bottle she had carried under her arm and poured two cups of wine half-way before shoving the cork back in.

"Anything else?" she asked in a deadpan. Elodie looked up from her eclectic plate of fried foods including potatoes, tomatoes, an egg, a skinny sausage, and a brown bread roll.

"Yes, actually," she said, "Some Musketeers were here a while ago. They rescued a kidnapped child from a man that was-"

"Hold on. Who the devil are you?"

"The child's mother."

The woman gawped at her, dropping the arm holding the bottle of wine. It audibly sloshed with the movement.

"You don't mean to say the Musketeers were kidnappers too?! Oh, you poor woman. I'm so sorry, I don't know where they are. I trusted them!"

"And you were right to!" Elodie intervened in the woman's panic, "The child is safe, I assure you."

The innkeeper dropped her concern very quickly, switching back to a deadpan,

"What're you doin' here then?"

"My husband and I are looking for the man the Musketeers apprehended and released. Did he come back here at all? Have you seen him since?"

The woman scoffed and said,

"I wouldn't'a let him back on my property. Not after what I saw. So no, I haven't seen 'im."

Elodie gave a huff, obviously disappointed.

"Thank you, Madame," she said gracefully, "And thank you for the food."

Elodie wondered where Porthos had gotten to. She thought to tell him what she had learned, so she left the table and went upstairs where she had seen him go. Through an open door to one of the rooms, she soon found him with a young woman, redheaded much like the woman downstairs, though her colour was much more vibrant with youth. She caught the end of their conversation,

"This is a place for travellers, Monsieur. A point between points. We don't get regulars here. Only passers-by. No point remembering faces."

And she tossed a rather flat-looking pillow onto the bed.

"Thanks anyway," Porthos mumbled and turned to leave the room when he saw Elodie.

"Nothing?" She asked him through a smile.

"Nothing," Porthos confirmed, and they headed back downstairs to eat.

* * *

Their next destination was the provincial town that d'Artagnan had pointed out to Porthos. A place called Corbeil that sat on the edge of the Seine.

"Alright, El," Porthos said once they slowed on the main street, "you knew the man- where would he have gone?"

Elodie said nothing about her feelings of not actually knowing Asher. By now, her former husband was a stranger to her. She looked around on horseback. It was a busy town of decent size. She didn't know where to start.

"He didn't have any money," she thought aloud. Porthos adjusted himself in his saddle as he watched Elodie continue her train of thought. She forced her horse into a trot further down the cobbled street, wayfarers staring up at her. Porthos was careful not to tread on anyone as he caught up.

"He did contract work in Paris," she said, chewing on her lip, "Mending roofs, pouring gravel, that sort of thing…" then she remembered, "Well, that's what he told me anyway. But I know for a fact that he is capable of finding work. Maybe that's what he did!"

"A town like this," mused Porthos, "there must be notices put out. Someone might remember him."

So they made their way around the town, asking after a man with Asher's description and name who came to Corbeil a year ago without a sous. The process was a slow one, much to the chagrin of Porthos who grew tired of menial tasks quickly. They met with a number of business owners around town, and even the deacon of the local church before the sun set on their first day of the mission, streaks of orange and pink highlighting the sky. They walked out of a bakery, the owner eager to be rid of non-paying customers, and Porthos put his arm around Elodie.

"I think we're missing something," said Porthos, "We're not going to find anything here. We should move on."

Elodie was thinking it over, ready to agree with him, when she saw a boarded-up house across the street. Painted in black on the front door was just the word 'RATS'. Just then, two men climbed out of a first-floor window that faced the wall of the next building, and then they walked casually down the street toward the tavern Porthos and Elodie had visited earlier. Elodie stopped in her tracks, halting Porthos too with his arm around her.

"That's what we're missing," she said.

"What?"

"Oh," said Porthos, following her outstretched hand. Despite his reaction, he didn't actually understand, so he looked at his wife. She was staring across the street pointedly, and with detest. This was enough to jog his memory.

"Oh!"


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos reluctantly followed Elodie, clumsily avoiding other people on the street. He skipped ahead to stop her when she got close to one of the windows. Holding her arm, and in a low voice he said,

"This isn't safe."

"Get your sword out then," she replied annoyedly, shrugging off his grip.

"Elodie-"

"He's in there, I know it. And he will not have the benefit of my naïve perception of his character this time," she said, rushing her words. Porthos barely caught what she was saying, she spoke so quickly.

"Alright!" he said in a hoarse whisper, "We'll look inside. But be quiet. If there's anyone in there, they might've already heard us."

Porthos craned his neck to look through a gap in the planks that covered the window. It was very dark inside, there was nothing to see, not in the front room at least.

"There's an open window this way. Come on," said Elodie, and she hastened over to where she had seen the two men appear. Porthos again reluctantly followed, very aware that people on the street were watching. If he had his pauldron, sporting the symbol of the Musketeers, at least people would know what he was doing was worthwhile and honourable. Without it, he was just a man snooping around an abandoned building.

Upon closer inspection, the window wasn't exactly a window. A red curtain hung over a big hole in the wall, the frame and glass of what had been a window had been destroyed long ago. It was wide enough for even Porthos to fit through with room to spare, though it was a few feet off the ground.

"I'll go first," Porthos declared before Elodie could push herself up on the wall. She rolled her eyes (a new habit of hers), and gestured for him to go ahead.

"I swear, if there are rats in here…"

As he scrambled up, using those strong arms of his, Elodie looked out onto the street like a child afraid of being caught doing something they shouldn't- that small thrill was part of the adventure. Living in Paris, she'd become used to a routine. It was a routine she didn't mind, but being married to a musketeer was something that excited her- not that she would ever admit it. Then he went back to the war, and she went back to a routine. Standing in that little forgotten lane, watching her gallant husband clamber through a window, Elodie came to the surprising realisation that she was having fun.

"Oh God, there are rats in here."

Porthos had dropped down to the other side. The next thing she heard was the ringing of steel as Porthos drew his sword. With a small smile, Elodie easily got up onto the wall and lifted the curtain to the side before swinging her legs over to land on her feet on the other side. Porthos was carefully pacing the room in the dark, the tip of his sword extended to the dusty bare boards of the floor.

"Hello?" Porthos called out as friendly as he could be in that moment, and to Elodie, he said, "Mind where you step."

A high pitched squeak came from the corner behind them, and Porthos yelled as he spun around to face his foe. The sneaky creature disappeared and Porthos grumbled annoyedly at having been scared. Elodie couldn't help but laugh.

"Nope. I don't like this," he said over his wife's giggling, and he replaced his sword in its scabbard, "There's no one here, let's go."

He was ushering her back to the window before she'd even taken two steps into the place.

"Michel is that you, you ol' tosser?"

The new voice surprised the intruders, for that is what they were. It sounded like it had come from the second floor.

"Uh, no," Porthos began, stepping back into the darkness, "We're visitors?"

Creaking down the rickety staircase in the far corner of the room came a golden candlelight, and a young man in ill-fitted dirty clothes.

"How'd you get in?" he asked the visitors, looking rather frightened. Porthos puffed out his cheeks and blew out a puff of air awkwardly before casually saying,

"Through the window… Is there anyone else here at the moment?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Do you know a man by the name Gauthier?"

"Porthos!" hissed Elodie at his bluntness. Porthos looked back at her as if to say 'this was your idea'. The burning candle trembled in the young man's grasp.

"A-are you from His Majesty's c-conscription office?"

Porthos narrowed his eyes.

"No."

The young man eased, but only slightly. Already tired of the situation, Elodie spoke up,

"You're not in trouble. Could you tell us how long you've lived here, and do you know a Gauthier or not?"

"T-two years, madame. On and off. And I swear I don't know a Gauthier."

Whispering to her husband, Elodie said,

"He was never here."

"I'm more concerned about this one now. He's an absconder," Porthos replied, his eyes deadset on the man in question.

"Of course he is, but there's nothing we can about that now. He's a boy, Porthos. He doesn't belong in an army anyhow. Not everyone is as strong as you. Not everyone can willingly submit themselves to battle."

It was obvious that the young man had run away as a result of conscription. This angered Porthos as it would any devoted soldier, and greatly reminded Elodie of her deserter of an ex-husband, but interfering with the freedom of a fugitive was not what they were here for. A black rat scurried across the floorboards in front of Porthos, and this ended the moment's consideration for the general.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, and went for the door, remembered it was blocked, and lead Elodie back the way they had come without looking back.

Back on the street, the setting sun shining on their backs, Porthos and Elodie waited until they were a good distance away from the rat house to say anything.

"No sign of him. What a surprise," Porthos said, rounding a corner, his boots falling heavily on the stones. Elodie skipped along to catch up to him.

"These are still the kinds places we should be looking," she said, "Not respectable businesses, no. No— he would have crawled back into that ruin on the bloody Pont Notre Dame if d'Artagnan hadn't banished him from Paris. Outside Paris he's doing the same thing, I guarantee it."

She had wound herself up. The absconder had reminded her too much of Asher. The traitor who would rather be a vagrant than a father. She had been a fool to think they'd find him by interviewing a deacon or a baker.

"You might be right," replied Porthos, sighing, "but we still need solid leads. We don't have time to search every rat infested shelter in Europe. And I don't have that kind of patience."

Finally, Porthos slowed, they had reached the hotel as the sun had reached the horizon.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, decidedly done with the search for the day, "I'm hungry."

Later that evening, when they walked into their room for the night, Elodie smiled wide.

"This is a nice room. I could get used to this," she said, admiring the four-poster bed and plump mattress on it. Being a general did have its perks as a paid occupation, though Porthos rarely had the opportunity to take advantage. Tonight he did.

"Well don't," chuckled Porthos, "Tomorrow night we might be sleeping in the woods."

"Really?"

Porthos shrugged and laughed as he fell backwards onto the bed. Seeing that his eyes were closed, Elodie threw herself on top of the unsuspecting man. He grunted with the impact, but then reflexively took her in his grasp. His arms pressing her body to his, she did not feel trapped. Rather, protected. She kissed him then. A smiling, sweet kiss that in an instant alleviated all of the stress of the past few days.

It was past midnight when it started raining. Elodie was glad to have a roof over her head and a warm bed to sleep in, and a warm body next to her too. Porthos was close to drifting off, but she knew he was still awake. Elodie sat up high on the pillows, playing with his curls. She was deep in thought as she picked up strands of his hair and watched them fall back into a neat position on his head.

"He probably went to Burgundy," she muttered out loud, "It's been two years, maybe they're rebuilding. That's what he wanted all along. The war has moved on from that area, hasn't it?"

"Yes… I mean— he might've done," Porthos mumbled in reply, his eyes still shut.

"We should head in that direction next time. But it's so much further away…"

"Next time?"

Elodie took her hand from his head and shuffled down so they equalled in height.

"We're not going to find him in the next couple days," she told him, "especially with just the two of us. Four days, remember? That's what we agreed. I don't want to be out here for months searching for a ghost. We can try again another time in another place."

Elodie took a deep breath as she settled down, Porthos' now wide-awake gaze fixed on her. Under the covers, a gentle hand covered her hip. Elodie smiled at the man to whom the hand belonged, and she slowly closed her eyes, held in the assuring comfort of his caress.

"I miss her so much already it hurts," she whispered after a moment. Porthos just held her tighter. Elodie opened her eyes and with a sly smile said,

"But it's worth it to be spending the time alone with you."

* * *

The next morning, Porthos and Elodie were readying their horses. The sun had risen only moments ago, and Elodie yawned as she pulled her saddle onto her mount.

"Are you the ones looking for Asher Gauthier? The hotelier said I'd find you here."

Porthos and Elodie stopped and turned around. A man stood behind them, dressed elegantly in all black except for the gold chain that held his cape over his shoulder.

"Maybe. Who are you?" Inquired Porthos.

"No one," said the stranger, "But I know the man you 'maybe' seek. Well, 'know' is a strong way of putting it— I met him when he was here, supped with him for a week. He hasn't been in Corbeil for a long time."

He looked confused as to why they'd even be in Corbeil. Elodie stepped forward, suddenly feeling very awake,

"Where is he now?" she asked, eagerness evident in her voice. The stranger looked the couple up and down. He hadn't expected these people to be so aggressive in their search- or was it a chase?

"What do you want with him?" he asked.

Porthos and Elodie shared a careful, calculating look. Neither was sure how to answer such a question, and neither knew how the other would answer if honesty weren't an issue. The stranger adjusted his chain, uncomfortable, and intimidated by Porthos who so far had done nothing but frown.

"Doesn't matter," he sputtered nervously, "I don't know where he is now, I didn't even know he'd left until after the fact. He was not a well man. Might be dead by now. But if he's not, I'd be looking in gutters if I were you."

Porthos and Elodie shared another look, knowing this time. It took a moment after the stranger's revelation for Elodie to say,

"Thank you, monsieur."

The gentleman hesitated before bowing his head only a little and leaving the stable yard without another word. Porthos and Elodie were completely motionless as they watched him leave. When he was gone, Elodie smiled to herself as she turned back to her mount, busying herself with her saddle buckles.

"That confirms it!" She said happily, "I was right. He's back to doing exactly what I thought he was. I don't think we need to pursue him."

Porthos was still standing there idly.

"No. No, we must."

"Porthos— he's-"

"Don't underestimate him, Elodie. If what we just heard is true… Then the man has nothing to lose."

* * *

 **One week ago**

Asher cautiously walked through one of the grand gates of Paris, staring up at the ornate archway as he tugged the hood of his cloak closer over his head. He had no idea how vigilant d'Artagnan would be. His first stop would be at the house he had once stayed in. The comrades he'd met there would be sure to help him. Winding his way through the streets of Paris, avoiding puddles of mud and other messes, he came upon a crowd near the Pont Notre Dame. Asher tried to push his way through, but no one would let him pass. Agitated and curious, he asked the woman next to him what the crowd was gathered for. She was standing on the tips of her toes to get a look, and dropped down to tell him,

"General du Vallon has returned to Paris. Haven't you heard? He won a great victory at Rocroi. The man is a hero!"

Asher barely heard what she had said. Only the name. That name made his breath hitch in his throat and his skin turn cold. Then the woman shrieked happily with the rest of the crowd as an open-top carriage came past. Besides the driver, there was only one man seated there. Asher just stared at the man, shocked. When Porthos was no longer in sight, the excited crowd dispersed and Asher was left dumbfounded. Anxiously, he hurried to his destination only to find that the fire-damaged house was gone. A new building stood in its place, matching all the other houses in the row exactly. He would find no friends here. Feeling ill from what he had seen, he plodded along to the nearest tavern, a place he had frequented in the short time he had lived in the city. He ordered an ale, sat down at a table, and hadn't taken one sip before a voice shouted at him from across the room.

"Gauthier, you son of a whore!"

Asher dropped his mug on the table, the ale splashing over the rim. He stared at the gaunt blond barrelling towards him in surprise.

"Henri?" he said once the man had reached the table. He was close enough to recognise now, and it certainly wasn't an enemy. It was Henri, one of his friends from the Pont Notre Dame.

"It's been a long time," smiled Henri, "How the hell are you? How's the family?"

"Ah," replied Asher, realising that the last any of his friends had heard, he'd gone back to his family. No one knew of his exile.

"Not so good, Henri," he said, "I've been betrayed. I need your help. You and the others."

Henri pulled out the chair opposite Asher and sat down. Gently he said,

"We've all been betrayed. Each and every one of us. And each and every one of us wishes he could avenge his dignity. Of course we'll help you to avenge yours, but what's going on?"

Asher finally took a swig of his ale.

"It's a long story… I was exiled from Paris, and I haven't seen my wife and daughter. And the man I told you about, the one who married my wife and made me a cuckold?" He bitterly spat the word into his mug.

"I do remember your plight. It's one that has stayed with all of us."

"He's back. I saw him today… He's ugly."

"Had you met him before? Did you speak to the man?"

"No, and no. There was a parade of some sort, a small crowd blocked the street, I couldn't get around. So I asked someone what was happening and they told me it was for he," slowly, enunciating each name in his full title with mock esteem, Asher said, "General Porthos du Vallon."

Henri gasped.

"General du Vallon?! He is your wife's captor!? Oh Asher, you do realise you're meddling with the King's army— with the Musketeers! Whatever you're planning, doubtless it involves treason."

"Possibly," Asher said coolly, taking another sip of his drink, "I don't actually have much of a plan yet… Can I still count on you?"

Henri took a deep breath, looking Asher in the eye. He saw the desperation that held him. He felt a similar desperation within himself. After all these years of being away from his own family, Henri had never completely forgotten the anguish they had caused him.

"What have I to lose? Yes. Yes, I will still help you. But we tell the boys what we're dealing with too. It should be their choice to commit treason, don't you think?"


	5. Chapter 5

A young man of about seventeen sprinted through the streets of Paris. He raced past market stalls being set up, the owners yelling at him to slow down. But he couldn't slow down, he had an important message to deliver. The young man stopped outside the shopfront of a barber-surgeon. He smoothed back his shaggy black hair with the sweat from his forehead, and opened the door, ignoring the 'closed' sign. Out of breath, he approached the ten men that were resting in the small space. Henri was one of these men, Asher another. Henri stood up from the rickety barber chair when he saw the young man approach.

"Percy! What news have you?" he asked the spy.

"The general is gone!"

Asher and all the others sat up, alert. Asher stood next to Henri as he asked Percy,

"What do you mean 'gone'?"

"He left with your wife, not ten minutes ago," he replied, pausing to take a breath, "It looked to me like they were journeying somewhere."

"And my daughter?"

"I didn't see her. I expect she's with the captain's wife."

Henri put a firm hand on Asher's shoulder. He looked him dead in the eye and in a low voice said,

"This is it, Asher. This is our chance. What's the plan?"

The de facto leader took a moment to survey the men in the room before saying,

"First, we got some recruiting to do."

* * *

A lone rider on a black steed trotted into the garrison. D'Artagnan was in the yard, commending a stable boy when he heard the clomping of hooves. The stranger was dressed in navy leather, a familiar brown hat hiding his face. It took only a moment for d'Artagnan to recognise the man.

"Athos!" he greeted, and the man lifted his head, revealing his face. It was indeed his old friend Athos, though he looked different to how d'Artagnan remembered. He was even lighter in spirit, more gentle too. The former Musketeer captain dismounted.

"D'Artagnan," he smiled, and the two brothers embraced, both of them grinning.

"What are you doing here!?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"Visiting," was Athos' simple reply.

"And Sylvie?"

"With our son nearby. She's helping to set up a camp outside the city for refugees awaiting housing. Well, we are. I have my own tasks to carry out here. Though Sylvie is looking forward to paying a visit too."

D'Artagnan was beaming,

"A son," was all he said. Athos chuckled a little, a welcome sight that was quite unlike the placid countenance he had once been renown for. D'Artagnan gestured for the stable boy to take Athos' horse.

"Yes. Seems there's a lot to talk about."

The two made their way up the stairs, Athos admiring the reconstruction as they walked.

"It's good to see you, Athos. Shame you missed Porthos. He and Elodie left Paris just this morning."

"Where were they going?"

They had reached the balcony. D'Artagnan paused and smiled at Athos reassuringly,

"You're right, there's a lot to talk about."

And they continued on their way to the captain's office. A room that if things had been different would have still belonged to Athos. However, it was now foreign to him. Everything from the arrangement of the furniture, to the colour of the walls was different. The two Musketeers took off their hats as they entered.

"I would've sent word had I known we'd be back in the area," said Athos as he eyed the unfamiliar flag on the wall.

"Oh it's alright," said d'Artagnan, gesturing for Athos to sit before he followed suit, "I'm just thrilled to see you. The men will be happy as well."

"Oh, I have to make an appearance do I?"

"You're practically obligated to."

"Very well. How's Constance?"

"She's a force to be reckoned with."

"Excellent then."

"She's at the community house with Marie at the moment."

"Ah. A young ward."

Athos' hat rested on his knee. He fondled the rim of it as he considered his next question. D'Artagnan had avoided it the first time he had asked it, and he wanted to know why.

"Where have the child's parents gone, exactly?"

"You've been away. It'll be difficult to explain."

"Do try."

D'Artagnan told him the whole story of Asher Gauthier as he knew it. A look of disbelief never left Athos' expression.

"… I chased him down myself and took the child back from him," d'Artagnan finished, rubbing a hand over his perpetually sparse beard. Athos was quiet for a moment before asking,

"So why has Porthos left now?"

"It was my mistake," sighed d'Artagnan, "I let Gauthier go. Porthos only learned of this two days ago, and he has it in his head that Gauthier will return and harm his family again. I still don't fully believe it myself, but that's where they've gone. They aim to pick up his trail."

"That's quite the story."

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement,

"But while they're off adventuring, we still remain, caring for the daughter they so desperately wish to protect."

Athos cast his gaze to the floor. Marie-Cessette wasn't much older than his own son. Athos thought to put himself in Porthos' situation. It was a difficult one to fathom, but he definitely understood.

"I expect they just want peace of mind," he thought aloud.

"Yes. I suppose so. They'll be back in a few days anyway. Will you still be in Paris by then or do you have some adventuring of your own to do?" d'Artagnan asked, lightening the mood.

"Oh there's always adventuring to do," smiled Athos, "But yes, I think we'll stay for a little while."

* * *

The town of Troyes would be the last place Porthos and Elodie would look. If they were to return to Paris before the deadline they'd need to leave Troyes by the afternoon. Elodie was exhausted. For two days she'd travelled from town to town, village to village, searching for clues to Asher's whereabouts and nothing had come of it. She'd began pondering about wanted posters instead. Porthos still carried himself like a hound that had caught the scent. He was determined.

As was the routine, when they entered the town, they began asking questions. They asked after Asher, and when no one could help they asked about any abandoned places. They never split up to search. The Happy Peacock, a charming tavern in the middle of town seemed a good place to inquire. Porthos took off his hat as he ducked under the doorframe, Elodie not far behind. A barmaid, an older woman, was collecting drinking vessels. Porthos followed her to a table and surprised her by asking,

"Do you remember a man who might've come through here? Could've been recently, or about a year ago at the most."

The woman seemed amused as she shook her head.

"Well, that narrows it down."

Elodie stepped forward,

"His name is Asher Gauthier," she said, used to the spiel by now, "He has short hair, very short maybe, and clean shaven?"

"I'm sorry-"

"Did you ever come across a man who spoke of a baby?" Porthos asked, and the barmaid was dismissive at first, but then locked eyes with him.

"A child held hostage?"

"Yes!" cried Porthos and Elodie together, unable to hide the excitement that was rising in them both.

"There was one such man…" the woman nodded, walking away from the table. Porthos and Elodie followed her to the bar where she moved the tankards from her tray.

"A few weeks ago," she shrugged, "maybe a month past?"

"Did he say where he was going?" Asked Elodie. The woman frowned to herself,

"He wanted to form a posse. Said a heathen had his child hostage…"

As she said this, she looked Porthos up and down, taking a good look at him for the first time.

"Hold on that's you isn't it!?" she shrieked, drawing attention from the few patrons in the tavern.

"No, no, madame— we are the child's parents," Elodie assured her. Porthos stayed silent, he knew it was the only thing to help his cause.

"This man we seek, he is a liar and a kidnapper… Look into my eyes if you don't believe me."

Elodie stared into the eyes of this stranger, searching for a connection, for recognition. She conjured all she could to convince her, thinking of her daughter.

"They are the eyes of a desperate mother," she said softly, "If he had the aim of assembling men, then our daughter is in danger. Any information, please-"

"Now why on earth would someone want to hurt a-"

Porthos grumbled and said,

"Madame, the details of the situation should not concern you. All that matters is that this man is a danger, and we are pressed for time."

She rolled her lips and muttered,

"Fine, fine… Like I said, it was a few weeks ago. He tried to get the men here to join him, but none wanted to. Didn't have the coin, you see. Heard him talkin' to my Jean a few days later about going back to a city. Now which city I do not know, but he were headed to one."

Porthos' eyes widened, though Elodie did not see. He turned on his heel and left the tavern without so much as a word. Confused by and grateful for the information, Elodie quickly said,

"Thank you, madame," and followed her husband. She had to walk quickly to catch up to him, he was stomping down the empty street.

"This is the freshest lead we have," he said when Elodie caught up.

"Did he go back to Paris?"

"If he did he's been there a while already."

Elodie stopped in her tracks as a realisation came to her. Porthos walked on some paces as her heart panged in her chest and her whole body went cold.

"Porthos," she uttered, and he finally stopped too at the sound of his name. Seeing his wife so ashen, so afraid, he hastened over.

"He knows exactly where to find her," she said as he gripped her arms, afraid she'd faint, "and we're not there"

"There's still a lot standing between him and Marie-Cessette," Porthos smiled, "No Musketeer would allow it, d'Artagnan especially. And Constance? Forget about it."

Elodie just stared at his chest. It was entirely possible that Asher had been watching them. If he had, it might be too late.

"You were right. You were right, he was planning something. Oh God, he wanted to bring men with him… Oh God he wants to kill you!"

Elodie looked up at Porthos, tears brimming. He just gazed down at her fondly.

"That thought hadn't crossed your mind before?" he almost-whispered, such tenderness in his voice. Elodie shook her head,

"Honestly? No."

She fell into his arms then. She was so tired already, and now overcome with emotions she could never explain. Mostly she was afraid. She understood Porthos' fear now. Somehow he knew all along that Asher would come back, and nobody believed him. She would not make that mistake again. Elodie was going to have to trust Porthos, always and forever, just like she'd promised. They hugged in the middle of the street for a few moments, long enough for Elodie to regain her composure.

"Come on. We should get back as soon as possible," Porthos said, already rushing away. He pulled her along by the hand, looking around for landmarks in the unfamiliar town.

"We won't make it in a day. Paris is a hundred miles from here!" cried Elodie. They had planned to leave later in the day and allow for one and a half days travelling.

"We can make it in half a day," Porthos said confidently, "If we find fresh horses on the way and ride through the night."

They had found the stables where their horses were resting. Elodie tore her hand from his and exclaimed,

"But Porthos! What if we're wrong?"

Leading the horses out into the yard he replied,

"I'd rather be wrong than right in this particular situation."

If they were wrong, it meant that Marie was safe. If they were right, then their fears were coming true as they spoke, or maybe they had already come true. Elodie could only pray that d'Artagnan was as smart and courageous as she knew him to be. Porthos held out the reins to Elodie, but she didn't take them yet.

"But what if we're too late?"

He looked at her sadly. He loathed that she would even be thinking such a thing. He loathed that he was putting her through this at all.

"Just get on the horse, El."


	6. Chapter 6

Athos took d'Artagnan, along with Constance and Marie to see Sylvie and their son, who was now a year old. After a happy reunion, they surveyed the camp together. It was a venture well funded, and although the people there had been displaced, at least they had a decent place to live for the time being. Marie was most interested in her new friend, though he didn't take much interest in her, which amused their guardians. The party returned to the garrison all together, and when she saw it, Sylvie's awe of the new garrison was much more visible than Athos' had been. With the children on their hips, Constance eagerly told her,

"I'll show you what it's like inside."

And the women began to wander. Athos and d'Artagnan went up to the captain's office. D'Artagnan set his weapon belts down with a sigh and threw his hat on the red armchair that sat in the room. Athos sat himself down in the chair opposite as the captain absently picked up a small letter from his desk. It had no seal, only a ribbon. He looked up to see Brujon walking past the open door.

"Brujon?" he called, "when did this come?" he asked, holding up the unopened letter. The young man returned to his line of sight and said,

"Oh um, I think Lorenzo accepted it for you, sir. A little while after you left this morning."

D'Artagnan nodded his thanks and undid the ribbon as he lowered himself into his chair. Athos watched him, strangely intrigued. It was a short note, reading:

Captain d'Artagnan,

Your presence is requested at the palace today at 1 o'clock, afternoon.

You may wait for me outside the council chambers.

With regards from His Excellency,

Minister d'Herblay

"It's from Aramis!" d'Artagnan smiled, noting the signature he knew Aramis to detest, "He's asked to see me. Would you care to come with?"

The side of Athos' mouth moved upwards in a small smile. He sure would love to see Aramis, especially if he was in the costume of a dignitary.

"The meeting's not for an important matter of state?"

"Oh, I doubt it. Anyway if it is, it's not like you'd be useless in such a conversation. Come on, we'll leave in a few minutes."

They rode on horseback over the Seine, their hurried eagerness rewarded with a long wait outside the council chambers. Athos gazed out of a window that faced the gardens, while d'Artagnan was seated on an ornate but uncomfortable chair in the corridor, playing with his hat. He tossed it up and down and caught it like a child toying with a ball. Finally, the grand doors opened and a herd of councilmen emerged, shuffling down the corridor silently except for the swishing of their clothes. Aramis walked out second to last, being followed by his assistant. He was dressed handsomely in a pale blue doublet, and he carried a rolled up document. His tired gaze was downcast as he stepped out of the room, but when he saw who was waiting for him, his face erupted into a gleeful expression,

"D'Artagnan, Athos! You are the most pleasant of surprises," he grinned, embracing his old friend, "Oh it's good to see you."

"Likewise."

"You wished to speak with me, I thought I'd bring along an associate," d'Artagnan said. Aramis let go of Athos and looked confused as he said,

"Pardon?"

"The associate is Athos-"

"D'Artagnan… I did not send for you. It is not just Athos that is a surprise, it's you as well."

"What do you mean?"

Now it was d'Artagnan who was confused. He reached under his uniform and pulled out the letter. "I got a note from you this morning," he said. Aramis reached for it,

"Let me see… This is a forgery. A very good one I might add, but I did not write this," he said, crumpling the paper slightly as he shook the letter in his tight grip. D'Artagnan snatched it away from Aramis. He stared at the handwriting he thought he knew so well as he quietly said,

"I don't understand."

"Someone wanted us to be here," said Athos matter of factly.

"Here specifically, or just away from the garrison?" Aramis added. They all seemed to understand what had happened at the exact same time.

"We should return," said the captain.

"I'll come with you," said Aramis, chucking his document at his assistant who was already carrying several scrolls, and the three Musketeers started down the corridor. Careful not to alarm anyone in the palace, they walked swiftly rather than ran. However, they did jog down the stairs. D'Artagnan, who lead them, even jumped down a few steps to the landing. Following close behind him, Aramis spoke to Athos,

"The Inseparables, that's what they used to call us. Remember?"

"It still rings true," said Athos, and they smiled to each other before breaking into a sprint across the courtyard to catch up with d'Artagnan.

* * *

While Athos and d'Artagnan had been pacing corridors waiting for Aramis, a situation arose on the far side of the city. Some Musketeers were already being heroes elsewhere, but quite a few remained at the garrison. A young woman, flushed from running, but still rather beautiful, ran into the garrison and suddenly took hold of an unsuspecting Brujon. A few of the men in the vicinity stood to attention with a hand on the pommel of their swords, the rest drew them half-way out of their scabbards.

"Help me!" the woman cried, quickly slipping from Brujon's grasp. The young Musketeer heaved her up and asked her,

"What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"I am unharmed, Monsieur, but my sister! Oh God, my poor sister!"

"What? What has happened?" he pleaded as her eyes fluttered shut, "Mademoiselle!"

The woman stayed conscious but also stayed in Brujon's arms. His fellow Musketeers were surrounding him now, intrigued by the fainting damsel. With some strength regained she said,

"My sister is a hostage at the fortified granary near the Saint Denis gate! They released me to demand her ransom! Oh, brave Musketeers, you must help me."

It is well known that the Musketeers are a skilled and intelligent body of men, but unfortunately not one of them is immune to the wills of a damsel in distress. Right away they began gathering weapons and horses before any orders were given. With the captain absent, it was Brujon and Constance who had a shared authority. Brujon helped the woman to the table and sat her down on a bench when Constance emerged above their heads. She stood at the balcony, overlooking the commotion.

"What's going on?" She called down to Brujon.

"A girl has been kidnapped," he replied, and to the very exhausted-looking woman asked, "How many men? What are they armed with?"

"Oh many men, Monsieur Musketeer. They have many muskets and swords between them and they will use them to kill my sister if I do not return."

She was near incomprehensible with blubbering, but Brujon understood enough. With his comrades running about behind him, Brujon stood there for a moment, considering. Of course, they would help this woman, but they may need d'Artagnan's help. The woman took his thinking as a hesitation or a refusal. She grabbed for his hand and held it tight to her chest. Brujon's eyes widened with the sudden touch as she pleaded,

"Please, Monsieur, we haven't much time!"

"Remain calm. We will head out at once," he decided. Constance heard this and agreed. She stayed outside on the balcony until the men left. Only she, Sylvie, the children, and five cadets remained.

This was when Asher and his now exceptionally large gang struck the empty garrison. Armed with military weaponry stolen from a Spanish shipment and whatever else they could find, they stormed the garrison. Two children playing in the courtyard outside the gate screamed and ran away when they saw the gang. They were terribly imposing. The cadets were training in the yard, perfecting their sword fighting technique. They heard the screams and all lowered their weapons, turning their heads. About thirty men and a few women were headed toward them, shouts of a frightening battle cry mounting as they got closer. Constance and Sylvie were upstairs; they heard the screaming and the shouting too. Constance bade Sylvie to stay with the children while she went out to see what was happening. To her horror, she looked out onto the yard and caught the moment Henri, a man who she did not know, but who was leading the charge, brought his blade down on young Edmon. The cadet managed to defend himself, and then the two were locked in combat, equally matched. Around them, the other cadets put their training to the test and managed to take down a few attackers in a matter of seconds, but there were so many more. They were outnumbered by dozens, they swarmed the garrison like ants.

Constance headed for the captain's office, where she knew some weapons to be. Quickly, she threw open a desk drawer and pulled out a small pistol already loaded, and a handful of shots that rolled around, loose in the drawer. Then she ripped the corner of the flag on the wall. Behind it was a small shelf. Constance dragged the two pistols out and plucked the pouches of balls and powder too. She was only in there for a few moments, but while she was inside, most of the intruders had broken off from the hoard and were headed in different directions, including upstairs. Constance carried the loaded pistol in her hand and carried the others in her skirt, which she held like a pouch.

Out on the balcony, one man was already headed toward her, a skinny sword in hand. He saw her advantageous weapon too late, Constance shot him dead. The noise of the pistol attracted the attention of the two others up there with her. They had been banging on the door to the room where Sylvie and the children were. Her smoking pistol spent, Constance let go of the others, clattering them to the ground, and she picked up the sword of the dead enemy. Her heart thumping, they came at her single-file in the tight space. The first, she dealt with expertly. He was brave but badly trained. He lunged at her, but she dodged and sliced his sword-arm when he missed. He howled at the pain but then was silenced when she drove the end of her blade through his side. Constance staggered after this, shocked at her own violent manner. Then the second came at her. He too had a sword, but Constance had lost hers momentarily. His movements were wide and heavy, giving Constance space to avoid the blows. He yelled that terrible battle cry at her and went to try to strike her down when she yanked her second-hand sword back into her grasp just in time to block his attack much as Edmon had against Henri. Constance yelled back, her feminine voice more than able to match his ferocity. And she pushed with all her strength. She pushed him so hard he broke through the railing and fell backwards onto the table down below. He fell flat on his back and did not stir. Constance watched this, and the chaos that still raged in the yard. She also saw a familiar face in the crowd that made her freeze. Asher Gauthier. He stood in the middle of it all, alone and weaponless. He surveyed the garrison with a placid gaze, that is until he locked eyes with Constance. His gaze turned hard then, and he began pointing, shouting,

"Madame d'Artagnan! Madame d'Artagnan! The captain's wife! She is up there!"

The cadets were still holding their own, all except for one who was slumped against one of the posts that held up the balcony. Constance couldn't tell if he was still alive. At Asher's shouting, the rest of the gang that had split off and was ransacking the garrison accommodation returned to the yard. Edmon finished off his foe quickly and raced up the stairs to protect Madame d'Artagnan, as well as her friend and the children he knew to be inside. Seeing that she had time thanks to the cadet's bravery, Constance collected her weapons and returned to Sylvie. The door was locked tight, so she kicked the door and called out,

"It's me! Let me in!"

The door immediately opened, and Constance fell into the room where she tossed the contents of her skirt onto the floor. Sylvie stood before her, her son on her hip and her other hand trembling over her mouth. Marie was sitting on the chair where Constance had left her, her little legs dangling high off the floor as she watched on. She had been crying, but now she just looked like her usual curious self. Sylvie had always had a way with those that were frightened, adults and children alike.

"What do we do? What do they want?" Sylvie asked Constance as she started loading the pistols on her knees in the middle of the room. Her fingers trembled as she worked, though she tried to hide it.

"I-I think I know what they want," she said quietly, and she looked over at Marie who was swinging her legs and yawning. Sylvie expected her to continue, but she just stared at the little girl, obviously thinking very hard.

"What is it, Constance?" She pressed, "Why are they here? What do they want?"

"I think they're here for her," Constance replied, and then turned her head to look up at Sylvie who was rather confused.

"The baby!?" She exclaimed. Constance just went back to what she was doing and pushed a ramrod down the barrel of the second pistol.

"Porthos was right," she muttered, "He knew this would happen."

"What are you talking about? I thought you said this is Elodie's daughter."

The weapon now loaded, Constance handed it to Sylvie and said,

"We have to hide her, we have to protect her."

"Constance!" Sylvie shouted at her in frustration, "Is this to do with the King?"

"What? No, this has nothing to do with the King."

"Are you sure? Because this situation is feeling a little familiar."

Constance allowed herself a small smile at her friend, remembering the adventure they had had together, hiding the boy-king after Louis had died. It was definitely the worst day of their lives, but it was an adventure nonetheless. Before Sylvie could press Constance again for some answers, there was some ferocious banging on the door for the third time. The women jumped and the children spontaneously started crying. Constance rushed to the door and blocked it. She didn't know how long she could hold it for, it was already so weak. The wood had started to splinter. Sylvie set her son down with Marie and started pushing a table towards Constance. They barricaded the door with the rest of the furniture in the room too, but it wasn't much. Thinking back to when they were tasked with hiding the king, Constance looked around for any place to hide the children. There was none. She raised her weapon at the door.

"There's no way out."


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos and Elodie had ridden through the night and made it back to Paris in the early afternoon just as Porthos had intended. They arrived on one horse. Porthos' was close to death when they found a farm in the middle of the night, but the farmer only had one horse to trade. Porthos still insisted that they could make it. He dismounted and led the horse through the city with Elodie atop it, exhausted. By the time they crossed the Seine, Elodie suddenly perked up.

"Do you hear that?" she asked Porthos. He lifted his head up as he walked, listening to the sounds of the city. In the distance, they heard the noise of battle. Such noise was not unusual this close to the garrison, but they could both sense that something wasn't right. Porthos looked back at his wife. She slid off the horse and started running.

Elodie reached the garrison first, Porthos just behind her. She was stopped in her tracks at the gate. Bodies littered the yard. There was even one sprawled on the table. The ground was saturated with blood. Swords were still clanging on the balcony.

Barely taking a moment to take in what he was seeing, Porthos took his wife's head in his hands and kissed her forehead,

"Stay back," he commanded, and he drew his sword and ran into the fray. Elodie was still panting from running there and for a moment she was so shocked she didn't know what to do. Then she started for the armoury.

Porthos was at the bottom of the stairs when from behind him he heard,

"You took my wife from me! You heathen! You devil!"

He turned around just in time to avoid the strike that was brought down upon him, twirling like d'Artagnan does. He locked eyes with his attacker. Blue eyes that might've reminded Porthos of his daughter's had they not been so icy. It was Asher Gauthier. It had to be. He came towards him again, and this time Porthos blocked him. It was obvious he was no expert swordsman, but he had a strength in him. Porthos pushed Asher's blade away as he shouted,

"I took nothing from you! Elodie made her choice! She chose me!" Asher slashed at him. Porthos jumped aside.

"You could've had a chance if you'd only been a decent, deserving man— I wouldn't've stood in your way!"

"I did what I had to," growled Asher, and he slashed again. Porthos caught the blade with his own and dragged it up and out of Asher's grip. The sword flew to the side and clattered against one of the pillars.

"You did no such thing," laughed Porthos, the tip of his blade pointed at Asher's throat, "What you did was a crime— a selfish crime. And in committing it you destroyed any chance you had to be with your family. And it had nothing to do with me."

He was backing Asher into the wall. He stumbled on a corpse, but Porthos kept coming towards him, kept talking.

"I wasn't even there," Porthos continued, "… But I wish I had been. I wish I had been there so I wouldn't have had to hunt you down a year later and be here right now."

Asher's back hit the wall. Tiny granules of pale stone fell away and tickled his neck. He grew pale and he quivered at the small scrape of the steel.

"What're you going to do, General?" He questioned with such disdain. The sword lowered, and so did Porthos. He brought his face so close. Their foreheads were in such close proximity that Porthos could feel the humidity of the other's sweat on his own skin. He was looking into those icy eyes that were not his daughter's. He had seen eyes like this before— so often in his career as a Musketeer. Even as the men they belonged to died, the eyes neither softened nor warmed. Marie has Elodie's eyes.

It was just the two of them. Alone together. The sound of Porthos' calm breathing almost echoed in the little space that was just their own. Asher had shrunk into himself, his cocky edge quickly lost when he had looked into Porthos' eyes too. Deep and dark and foreboding. The indecipherability of them terrified him. These are the eyes that smile at my daughter? How could Elodie look into these eyes and not distress?

His voice level, Porthos spoke through a half-whisper,

"I'm going to make sure you can never hurt Elodie or her daughter ever again."

At this moment, Elodie was stood in the yard, wielding a pike— the best thing she could find— and watching what was happening. She had missed the fight but had seen Asher backed against the wall and wondered if Porthos had killed him already, but then she heard Marie. Her cry was gruesome. Elodie looked up and saw her on the balcony. She was screaming her head off in Henri's skeletal arms. He was holding her tight against his shoulder. Behind him was what remained of their army, about seven men all in a row.

"Marie!" cried Elodie helplessly. This made Porthos turn around.

"Mama!"

What Elodie hadn't seen was the pistol, outstretched from the hand of one of the men and aimed right at Porthos. It was one of the guns that Constance had loaded.

"Nooooo!" Elodie screamed. It was the kind of scream that shocks you, throttles you, and you feel it all the way through your body. Her scream was loud, but not loud enough to mask the sound of the pistol being fired. Elodie threw down the pike and started running for Porthos. A second shot was fired before she reached him and her instincts forced her to the ground. When she looked up, both Asher and Porthos were in the dirt. Tears streaming, her vision blurred, Elodie scrambled her way over to them.

* * *

Aramis was the faster rider that day. He charged through the streets, shouting at people to get out of the way. His horse skidded when he apologetically jerked back the reigns in the courtyard outside the garrison. He heard Elodie's scream and the shot that struck Porthos. He got off the horse and barrelled through the gate. He heard the second shot. D'Artagnan and Athos weren't far behind. Elodie was to his right, at the bottom of the wall with her husbands.

"Porthos! You're bleeding!" She said, inspecting the wound in his arm.

"I'll be fine. But…"

"Asher…" She breathed, staring at the man slumped against the wall. Blood streaked the surface of the stone where he had slid down. He moaned and spat blood, the action of which caused him to wince. Torn between wanting to save a man's life and watching his enemy die, Porthos picked up his sword. He looked to his wife, wanting her to tell him what to do. But her attention was not on him. Porthos walked away. This was not his moment of revenge. He reunited with Athos and the others to take care of the remaining men. They had faltered upon seeing Asher dying and would have surrendered had it not been for Henri commanding them to attack as he headed inside with the child.

They filed down the staircase and swung at the Musketeers, who worked together and felled them like farmers cutting hay.

D'Artagnan was the first to break away from the fight. As soon as he could, he rushed up the stairs, shouting his wife's name. The last three enemies that remained surrendered and Athos followed d'Artagnan soon after, calling for Sylvie. The room upstairs was open. The door was in pieces inside, but most of it was lying flat on the floor, surrounded by scattered furniture, and lying next to it was Constance. Sylvie was at her side, she and her son were unharmed. Athos kissed them both as they stood over their friends.

D'Artagnan had promised to kill Asher. Seeing Constance hurt like that, her wonderful beautiful happy face bloody and bruised… He wanted to kill him even more. But there was nothing he could do with his anger now.

In the next room, the captain's office, Porthos was met with a locked door. Without a moment's hesitation, he paced over to the railing, right next to where it had been broken. He pressed himself against it to give himself some space, and then he ran and leapt through the adjacent window, shoulder first. Glass cascaded into the room, the shards reflecting light. Porthos rolled on the floor to save his neck, crunching glass as he did so, and he landed on his feet. He had surprised himself with such an acrobatic display, but it was even more of a surprise to Henri who had barricaded himself in the room. Porthos picked up his sword which had landed beside him and brushed his torso as he strode over to the desk. He did not have to raise his weapon, nor did he even speak. Henri handed the child over wordlessly. Marie clung onto her father, her teary wet face buried in his collar, and her small arms almost choked him she held him so tight. Porthos dropped his sword to hold her in both arms. He closed his eyes as he breathed in the smell of her. Relief flooded his body, weakening him for just a moment— his knees almost gave way. When it passed, he lifted his eyes to the man in front of him. Porthos punched him square in the face. Henri fell back into the desk, the wood screeching as the legs skidded across the floor a few inches, and then he slumped to the floor.

* * *

"Elodie… I'm sorry… It came to this."

She was crouched next to Asher, surprised by how much she was crying, and by what he was saying.

"You're sorry?" She repeated.

"Yes…" he said, ruby red blood trickling down his chin as he struggled to speak, "Is she… Safe?"

Her heart in her throat, Elodie looked up to where they had heard the smashing of glass. Her daughter was finally in Porthos' arms. He was cradling her, kissing her gently, whispering to her that everything was alright now.

"Yes. She is, she's safe," she told him, smiling.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, now crying himself, "You didn't… Deserve… Any of this."

Elodie looked to the sky, trying not to blubber, trying to process what had happened and what was happening right now.

"We can't change the past," she said, "All I can do now is… Asher? Asher!"

She sat up on her knees and touched his shoulder, but didn't do much more than that. He was dead. She sat down in the dirt.

"I forgive you."

Such disbelief. In her words. In what had happened. In what was before her. She didn't want to be in front of him any longer. She wanted her baby. And now she could have her, thank God.

* * *

A week later, Aramis was walking the corridors of the Bastille, the walls echoing with the sound of his boots clicking on the stone. He had an entourage of but two men. His assistant, and a jailer. The jailer led him to a cell at the end of the corridor and with a nod from Aramis, he unlocked the door. It was Henri Faucheux's cell. The gaunt blond was looking even gaunter since his imprisonment.

"Good morning, minister," he croaked, his chains rattling as he turned. A chair had been brought for Aramis. He stared, seething at the man before sitting down. This was the man that had helped orchestrate the attack on the garrison. Had caused the deaths of three cadets, wounded two others, brutally attacked Constance, endangered Sylvie and her infant son, and attempted to kidnap an innocent child. Aramis was there to ask him why. He was there on no authority but his own. This was a personal matter.

"All those people. All that effort. For one little girl," he finally asked, "Why? Why was she worth so much to you?"

Henri pushed off from the wall he had been leaning against and shuffled his way over, his noisy shackles irritating the already angry Aramis, though he hid it well.

"She was Asher's only child," he began, "To me and to the people we met, she became a symbol for our own lost families. People like us survive, yes, but the only way we can thrive is with hope. Asher's daughter was a symbol of hope for us. If we could achieve in saving her from the Musketeers then… Then we'd all have hope to keep us alive. I don't expect you to understand, but… Hope itself is worth fighting for…"

Aramis did understand. He understood very well what hope meant. Hope had been what had kept him alive most of his life. After a moment, Henri sniffed and said,

"Ah. That is not entirely true… Hope was part of it, but so was anger. Revenge. My son was a red guard. He died ten years ago at the hands of a Musketeer. Some of the others— I know many of them had they themselves been injured by Musketeers too or lost loved ones. Percy— he was just a boy when his mother was killed in the crossfire between some Spaniards and the Musketeers."

Aramis frowned. The guilt from that day in the market came rushing back to him. That mission had been a disaster and it was all his fault. Henri continued, not noticing the strange look on Aramis' face,

"They aren't the knights in shining armour everyone believes them to be. Chivalrous and kindly they are not," he spat, and then calmly said, "I do not regret what has happened. I do not even regret killing my friend, for regret is pointless. The past is what does harm. The less time I spend there the better."

"But you took revenge on people you thought had wronged you a long time ago-"

"Just because I do not regret," the criminal said slowly, "does not mean that I forget."

* * *

A few miles away, in a lush meadow bordered by oak trees, Elodie lay sprawled out in the grass. Porthos was beside her, also relaxed, on a blanket, his bandaged arm resting across his chest. Marie was at his feet, stuffing her face with sweet biscuits. Wildflowers bloomed all around. Elodie plucked the big daisy next to her and sat up with it. Then she picked another. Porthos watched her as she carefully threaded the stem of one flower through the other. When she reached over and took another flower- a yellow dandelion this time- Porthos asked,

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making a crown of flowers," she said idly, working on her creation.

"How?"

Elodie smiled at him.

"Here," she said, "hold this."

Porthos took the flowers and looked at the chain curiously.

"You've never done this before?"

"I grew up in the city…" he half-explained but trailed off. Elodie only smiled and helped him thread the stems together. It was difficult to do when he had restricted movement in one arm, and his fingers were too big and clumsy for the delicate work.

"You may be wise to the ways of the streets," said Elodie as she picked more flowers, "but I'm a country girl. There's a lot you can learn from me."

"Like how to make a crown of flowers," replied Porthos, having successfully connected his first flower in the chain.

"Exactly," Elodie confirmed, "This is very important information."

When the crown was finished, Porthos placed it on Marie's head. Confused, she leaned back, trying to see what was on her head, until it fell off. Her parents laughed, and Marie broke out into happy giggles. Her mother replaced the crown on her head. Porthos lay in the grass, watching his girls. As they often did, his thoughts drifted to the events of the week before. Asher hadn't deserved moments like this. Moments like this would never even happen if he had been around, Porthos was sure of that. But then, Porthos wasn't even sure that he himself deserved a moment like this; deserved Elodie.

"Are you happy?" He asked her. Elodie adjusted the flower-crown on Marie's head just a bit. The little girl had come to accept it and was back to pulling up grass.

"I am astoundingly happy," Elodie replied, and she carefully placed a stem of bluebells behind her ear. The colour of them became so much more vivid against the honey-gold of her hair. She then curled up next to Porthos and put her head in his lap. Porthos held her hand as they both took in the scent of the flowers, and they closed their eyes, facing the sun, the same direction that the sunflowers faced in the field on the other side of the meadow.


End file.
